It's What He Deserves
by lostcowgirl
Summary: Matt Dillon thinks he has enough problems dealing with crooked gamblers, drunken TX cowboys and a friend from his youth turned lawman hating gunman. That is until he's filled with hate upon spotting a man out of the corner of his eye he last saw when he was 10.
1. Chapter 1 The Disciplinarian

Chapter 1 – The Disciplinarian

Our death in the spring of 1855 a month before our boy turned 15 called a halt to our direct influence, but then good parents allow their son to start finding his own way at that age. Ever since we've been privileged to watch him grow into a fine man, a United State Marshal. Although we haven't been able to interact with him, Alice and I were granted the privilege of observing his life as little or as often as we desire. Recent events in our son's rather dangerous life, thanks to his choice of occupation, set me to musing on how close that life came to ending when he was ten. Death from disease for the white folks in our little town of Seneca, Missouri wasn't uncommon in 1850. Violent death was. It was solely the lot of slaves.

Seneca's an unincorporated farming village in the southwest corner of Missouri on the Arkansas line 35 miles south of Joplin. Back in '50 about half the folks thereabouts believed slavery was just and a few of those families kept one or two slaves. However, the remaining half of the citizens of Newton County were abolitionists like us who worked farms and businesses without the help of slaves even before President Lincoln freed them.

Sometimes arguments over the treatment of slaves became heated leading to fisticuffs. We also had our share of petty crime. Therefore a town meeting was held a few years earlier to appoint a part-time sheriff. They picked me, Thomas Dillon. It could have been any one of us, except maybe our newest resident Dutch George. Although he handled a rifle and pistol as well as the next man, or woman, it wouldn't do for a man who earned his living stealing horses to enforce local law. I reckon they chose me 'cause I'm no goody two-shoes but don't hold with breaking God's law neither. That's why I didn't cotton to our Matthew following George all over. Still, I didn't send the man packin' either. We were all pioneers and George was only following Indian ways. According to their practice stealing the other tribe's horses was simply a way to show you were a better provider and protector.

This particular June day Matthew was quick about his chores and so was free to do whatever he wanted for the remainder of that early summer morning short of courting trouble. I got to admit though an honest boy, he was a bit wild. It's why I was buying supplies for us to take a little hunting trip across Arkansas into Indian Territory. I wanted him to take on some responsibility and learn to respect other cultures, including those of the Indian tribes and the slaves. A good man needs to learn every man and woman is worthy of respect no matter their situation as long as they're honest and hard working.

I missed my gawky, tall for his age boy with dark brown curls badly in need of cutting barely register his friend Rich Beckman handing him a small package as they raced in the opposite directions. Nor did I witness the man whose package it was grab my son and, while holding him by the collar, lift his shirt and pull down his britches. I came out of the trading post that served as our general store in time see him holding my son over a hitching post and thrashing the boy's bare back and behind with a sturdy, wide strap that served as his belt in keeping with his height and girth. I'd say he was as near to my height as it wouldn't matter and weighed in at 250 pounds of more muscle than fat. I sped across the street to pull him off my son while shouting for him to stop.

"Unhand that child!" I yelled, grabbing hold of his right arm, the one wielding the strap. "You've no right!"

"I don't know who you are mister but I have every right. That boy stole from me. Retribution must be swift and by the hand of the affronted!"

I'm a strong man of 45 who stands broad of shoulder at six feet four inches and somewhat over 200 pounds. Years of farming and hunting to provide for my family have honed my muscles. I used that strength to pull his arm back and turn the younger by at least 15 years, heavier man to face me to keep him from further assaulting my only living child. Matthew, of a strong constitution, was the only one of our six children to live beyond infancy. He also, though not the last one born, would be our last. Alice could not birth another, not after the last try a couple years back. Hence we, well mainly Alice, coddled him, but not to the point of neglecting to instill in him a strong code of behavior that would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. I was certain Matthew would strive to do right as he grew to manhood and beyond for the betterment of all.

Sheer determination allowed me to pull the massive man in the frock coat of a preacher completely away from my lad. My actions allowed Matthew to painfully stand up straight and hurriedly arrange his clothes so as to conform to propriety. Since I had such a strong hold my boy's attacker decided it behooved him to hear me out.

"Even if you saw this boy take something from you or anyone else he's not yours to punish. That prerogative belongs to his father or, if it's a serious enough offense, to the law."

"The boy was runnin' the streets instead of at his chores when I caught him. I saw no point in lookin' for either his father or the law until he was primed for further punishment as part of his atonement. I doubt this hamlet has seen fit to appoint anyone to enforce God's law judging from the poor excuse for a church building I see yonder."

"Lack of experience with ten-year-old boys and how they occupy their time on warm sunny days is no excuse. Nor is the state of our church. Despite no effort on your part to find either his father or a lawman, you've found them. You're talking to his father, a God-fearing man, and, as it happens, the local law. I'll thank you to hold your tongue while I hear from Matthew," I added glaring at him as he started to open his mouth. "Son?"

"Pa, if he means this, he can have it back," Matthew said taking the object from the right front pocket of his now pulled up and belted britches. "I stuck it in my pocket without thinkin' when it was given to me." At a nod to him and further glare at his assailant from me, he continued. "Sir, I'd have called after the boy who gave this to me to own up if I'd known he stole it. That hardly signifies now. Here it is, unopened," he told the man thrusting the parcel toward him. "I'm sorry it was taken from you."

I could see my son wanted to say more but he'd been raised to respect his elders no matter their actions, especially with his father standing beside him. He knew, despite sporting an already tender behind, he'd be subjected to a firm hand on a firm bottom through his britches when I put him over my knee for sassin' his elders. However, I was free to express the anger we both felt.

"Preacher, if not for the fact arresting you for assault would hurt my boy more than it would punish you, I'd lock you in the church cellar until Mr. Sayers the circuit judge came through. You have your property. We're done."

"If your little liar didn't steal from me directly, then he helped that other boy," the preacher retorted. "A man who truly holds to the law and raisin' up a son proper would beat him here and now on the street just like I was until he named the other thief. Regular beatins, and keepin' them usefully occupied, is what keeps these young hooligans on God's path."

"Matthew doesn't lie," I responded in the quiet yet menacing tone Matthew dreaded because it meant I was really angry and, in his case, deeply disappointed. "Be grateful the town asked me to wear this badge 'cause it's the only thing keepin' me from laying into you for beating and humiliating my child in the street. However, if you lay a hand on him again, I'll beat you half to death."

The self-righteous prig had sense enough to walk away without another word, free to go about his business. I was glad to see the back of him, unless he grabbed Matthew. Furthermore, I saw no point in trying to get my son to reveal which of his friends might be a thief. The bully disguised as a preacher was probably too full of himself to admit he might have lost it. Besides, it made no never mind. He had it back. Nevertheless, Alice, Matthew and I didn't attend his pro-slavery tent revival meeting at the edge of the Beckman farm, a mile down the road from ours. Gordon and Marigold Beckman's views were somewhat in line with their houseguest, but essentially decent folk. They were good enough to take in their foster child Rich a couple years ago when the eight-year-old orphan stole food from among the crops they were bringing to the general store to sell. However Gordon were almost as hard on him as he was on the three slaves he owned. To him, a judiciously applied whuppin' kept a wife, child and especially slave obedient. As far as I could tell, except in the case of his slaves, the beatings never slipped over into abuse.


	2. Chapter 2 A Worse Beating

Chapter 2 – A Worse Beating

Back in my boy's formative years the tradition in Seneca was for those of us with the inclination to take turns leading church services. The Dillon family was still reeling from Matthew's beating three days earlier at the hands of the Reverend Elias Dilborne, who was then known only by his title, so I was relieved it wasn't my turn. This particular Sunday, June 23, 1850, Mike Thornton, the owner of the general store, split that voluntary civic obligation with our neighbor Gordon Beckman. Like Alice and I, Mike and Belinda, our closest friends, are abolitionists who take their Christian obligations seriously. Hence they pay their freed bondsman Lucas the same wages as their white clerk. The Thornton family, which is completed by Matthew's best friend Chad, lives off the profits. Their glorified trading post allows them a comfortable existence beyond surviving on the bare necessities similar to what our farm provides for us.

Mike chose passages that dealt with the duty to treat one's slaves kindly until they are freed and to act towards all those that you encounter as you would like them to act towards you. In deference to those who held slaves he refrained from sermonizing on the inherent evils of the vile practice. Nor did he make reference to Matthew's ill treatment out of respect for our family. We could place Matthew's thrashing behind us. That is we could until toward the end of Gordon's half of the service when he invited his houseguest to speak.

I inwardly seethed, Alice grimaced and Matthew fidgeted when that vicious beast rose from his pew to stand at the pulpit. I led my family out of the church in indignant protest. If Alice hadn't cooked and baked for the picnic social following the service we would have driven our wagon immediately home. As it turned out the food tables may just as well have been laid out with nothing but turnips and castor oil for all that Matthew ate and as quiet as he was. We became fully aware of the extent of his distress when Alice turned to ask if he wanted a piece of peach pie baked from the fruit she'd canned last fall. He was gone, leaving behind a barely touched plate of fried chicken and potato salad. His mother had put these favorites before him from her basket in hopes it would ease his pain.

The despicable stranger had disappeared as well. Good riddance, I thought. The ill feelings he'd stirred up for everyone in attendance during his short sermon had dissipated with his departure, although from the heated way Gordon and Mike were talking some animosity still lingered. I hoped to see Mathew, recovered from his melancholy, racing around or playing ball with the other boys of the town but I didn't. Sadly, I called over his two closest friends Chad Thornton and Rich Beckman, who seemed to be getting along better than their fathers.

"Boys, did Matthew tell you where he was going?"

"No, sir, Mr. Dillon," they chorused. "I thought I saw him walking home before I finished my allotted plateful," Rich added.

I dismissed the boys and looked to where Alice was chatting amiably with Belinda Thornton and Marigold Beckman. Strolling in their direction, I joined their husbands Mike and Gordon, who were no longer angry at each other over the itinerant preacher's scorching sermon. Neither set of his friends' parents had seen our son since the congregation began sampling every woman's contribution to the potluck meal. I probably had no reason to worry, but a tingling at the back of my neck told me different - a rapid departure was essential to save my boy's life. Unable to shake the feeling something horrible had happened to Matthew during his three-mile walk to our farm I went to gather my wife without upsetting her. I told Alice to pack up whatever wasn't being donated to those less fortunate while I hitched up the wagon.

No parent, or for that matter no decent person, should have to confront the sight that greeted Alice and I when we reached home. A boy, whose naked backside had been whipped raw and then punched and kicked repeatedly, was draped over our porch railing, tied in place by his pants legs and shirtsleeves. The rest of his Sunday best lay on the ground behind him, his socks and underwear stuffed neatly into his shoes. When we approached close enough we saw his shirt, a note pinned to it, covered his drooping head that nearly touched the porch floor thanks to the sleeves securing it tightly to the uprights. It was our Matthew.

We untied him as quickly as we could. I carried his limp body inside the house while Alice raced ahead to pull down the linens on his bed. I then laid him on his stomach, his head turned to the right, away from the wall, drawing the sheet up to cover his nakedness. He was barely breathing. I put up the horse and wagon while Alice heated water to bathe Matthew's wounds. Finally, I read the note while she tended to our unconscious boy, knowing deep inside that even a doctor's care might not be enough.

"Your offspring refused to acknowledge he'd committed the sins of theft and lying, compounded by his refusal to name his accomplice, whose identity I already know. I beat him to the point where his final judgment is in the hands of the Lord, then placed him in a pose of deep repentance. Unlike the father of his partner in sin, who beat his boy in my presence, your paternal negligence in failing to regularly inflict the rod resulted in this impasse. Thus it fell to me to exercise punishment as directed by the Lord for his transgressions. The Traveling Preacher."

It was time to call in the regional law and whatever medical treatment might be available. Joplin, 30 miles away, was home to Judge Sayers and a doctor who traveled the same circuit as the judge. I ordered Beckman, who owned the fastest horse in these parts and had sheltered the murderous wretch, to ride for Doc Linton while Alice and I did our best to try to keep Matthew alive until the physician arrived. My place was with my wife at our boy's bedside. I'd leave it to our friends and neighbors to track down the fiend so I could beat him within an inch of his life before he stood trial for, I feared, murder.

Matthew still breathed when Mike Beckman brought the doc to our home, but even so we almost lost our child to his injuries. They included three broken ribs from being kicked and punched, bloody welts from a broad strap with a heavy buckle and even bloodier lashes from a buggy whip that tore off much of the skin on his backside. In addition, he suffered from a high fever brought on by infection. Alas, despite a determined search, Elias Dilborne escaped retribution. Alice and I never saw him again while we remained alive. However, that demon wasn't through with Matthew, an orphan trying to prove to himself he'd become a man.


	3. Chapter 3 Mob Control

Chapter 3 – Mob Control

Matthew had grown by early April 1855, at not quite 15, into a jumble of long arms and legs that stretched one and a half inches past my six feet four. In my mind he'd grown enough for me to defer to his desire to be called Matt. Even his mother Alice conceded he'd matured enough for her to now completely refrain from referring to him by her pet name for our son, Matty. The last time she used it, except in rare private moments, was just after he awoke from the beating that devil incarnate gave him. Nevertheless, he wasn't ready to be thrust into manhood, but that's what transpired on the night of the fire.

Matt, his best friend Chad Thornton and usually Rich Beckman still followed Dutch George around Seneca most evenings after supper like faithful pups eager to learn from their master. It kept him away from the farm until the inferno had engulfed our home. Much as he wished it to be so one determined boy, however large, couldn't extinguish a raging fire. I don't know if he braved the flames in a futile attempt to rescue us because by that point Alice and I were thankfully unconscious. Our generally good watchdog Big Red hadn't run barking from the barn to warn us in time for us to escape the smoke and flames. Shortly after, we were beyond all hope, leaving behind our gangling man-child to cope with the destruction.

It takes time to realize you're dead yet can observe, if no longer interact with, your still living blood relations and those in relatively close proximity. The first time was when Alice and I watched Matt sell off the Dillon farm and stock, keeping only his buckskin horse. He'd tended that foal, born to the Beckman's brood mare and my stallion, from birth and gentled him once the colt was old enough to be ridden. My agreement with Gordon was the animal would go to whichever boy he felt was most worthy. I've always felt Rich resented the fact his parents gave the horse to Matt rather than him even though from the beginning Matt paid more attention to that foal than Rich ever did. My guess is Gordon, a perhaps overly strict father, felt his headstrong foster son didn't deserve the gift as much as Tom Dillon's son.

Matt took off westward despite our good friends Mike and Belinda Thornton offering to take him in. However, he left Big Red, who always got along well with their son Chad, with them to watch over their store. Our orphan found his first work away from Seneca in Dodge City where his young life almost ended. Dodge was on the verge of being a real town back in '55 but it was still mostly a crossroads for trappers and buffalo hunters to trade their goods for supplies and have a good time in the tents that served as brothels, saloons and boarding houses. I was proud of him for defending his new friend Ben Fuller from buffalo hunter Jase Murdock's fists. Also, I was awfully glad that Doc Adams was able to save him. Murdock, a powerfully built and generally large man, left my boy for dead on the riverbank. Matt, remembering the beating he suffered five years before, was hurt more than in the flesh. The boy he was warred with the man he was becoming causing him to set off alone for points even farther west to prove himself a man.

I watched Matt's progress from time to time as he traveled the Texas Mexico border country taking what work he could find, sowing his wild oats and perfecting his skills with a pistol to the point where they matched the ones I'd taught him with a rifle. Alice preferred not to watch his fighting and cavorting, but I enjoyed it, stumble though he might. I was secretly proud when he became as accurate with a pistol, albeit at 50 feet or less, as he was with a rifle at up to 500 yards. By early spring he'd left Texas for a spot in the northern portion of southwestern New Mexico near the growing community of Silver City. The town wasn't called that yet because ranching, not mining, was still the predominant activity.

Matt was working for rancher Rory Gallagher the evening he and another Gallagher rider, a couple years older, rode into town on May 26th to celebrate my boy's 16th birthday. I looked in on Matt and Toque Morlan, who were by no means carrying on like angels, in the Silver Nugget Saloon. Both boys were cozying up to the bar girls, drinking, gambling and generally having a good time but not particularly looking for trouble. Trouble found them. Out on the street a man I recognized as the itinerant evil preacher I'd last seen in Seneca pointed something out to two of rival rancher Kip Wentworth's hands, Thad Miller and Reed Plummer. Two horses owned by their boss were tied to the hitching rail outside the saloon, but there were none belonging to the Gallagher spread or its two young riders.

When you observe events after your death you get a much broader perspective than when you're still part of the action. I could see Matt's employer enter the jailhouse to ask Sheriff Jack Riley for help with tracking down his daughter Cara and stopping rival and larger rancher Kip Wentworth's accusations of rustling against him and his riders. I could also see and hear what transpired when Miller and Plumber walked into the back room of the town's hotel where their boss' sons Clive and Cord sat in a high stakes poker game, losing yet again.

"We hate to bother you fellas, but the preacher what opened that orphanage a few days ago pointed out two of our horses are tied up at the rail in front of the Silver Nugget," Thad announced.

"What's so strange about that? A couple of you boys are probably inside being entertained," Clive the older of the Wentworth sons at 20 grumbled.

"There ain't none of us in there," Reed replied. "But we did see a couple of Gallagher's boys celebratin' like they just pulled off somethin' when we peeked in over the batwing doors."

With that everyone in the smoke-filled room, led by 18-year-old Cord Wentworth, rushed through the door into the hotel lobby shouting for help tackling a couple of thieving Gallagher hands. While he didn't enter the saloon or hotel, Elias Dilborne, who'd started it all by pointing out the horses, roused others to join the mob as he made his way to the sheriff's office. When he arrived at the jail the hypocrite claimed he was performing his duty as a man of the cloth and citizen of the town to alert the representative of man's law of the simmering lawlessness.

Meanwhile, the mob, which consisted of at least 10 men, had grabbed Matt and Toque and was pummeling them unmercifully with fists, broken bottles and gun butts. They'd already disarmed the boys. All I could do was watch in horror. I'd taught Matt what I knew about defending oneself. It appeared he'd learned a few tricks since from the way he wielded a broken bottle. His friend Toque was just as much of a scrapper. Still, they were badly outnumbered and some of the mob outweighed them by at least 50 pounds. However, just when I'd lost all hope Sheriff Riley provided a distraction by yelling for order as he raced toward the mob.

"Let me have those boys!" Riley shouted unaware the two boys had escaped. "I'll take care of them!"

Matt and Toque were black and blue but still able to crawl unnoticed into a nearby dark alley and race toward the stable that lay in the direction of the Gallagher bunkhouse. They were prepared to walk but, unexpectedly, someone had tied Matt's buckskin and Toque's strawberry roan to the rail outside the stable corral gate to aid in their get away. Toque mounted his horse and raced away, not bothering to see if his pal followed in his random choice of direction. I recognized the rigid stance and determined look on Matt's face. It was something I'd adopted often enough until the fire ended my life, the decision to do the right thing as much as possible within the circumstances. He was ready to turn himself in to the law if he could avoid the mob and reach the jail. If not, he'd ride back to the ranch and wait until cooler heads prevailed.

Matt stood by the corral, holding the reins of his horse. He didn't plan to mount up until he'd decided on his best course of action, one that was both right and would keep him alive. Sounds of the unruly mob grew louder, but not closer. Leading his horse and keeping to the shadows, he eased his way to where he could remain unseen yet view the action. The mob had turned on the sheriff. There seemed to be no stopping them. Then a sudden, separate noise, the snapping of a twig underfoot, startled him. He turned toward the sound, ready to fight.

"Shouldn't you be heading back to the ranch?" the voice intoned. "I can't think you'd want the mob to catch you. I'm afraid they're gonna kill Riley and nothing can stop them. They blame him for you and Toque escaping."

"Mr. Gallagher," Matt whispered, recognizing the voice. "I reckon I'd better follow your advice."

Early the next morning Matt rode the ten miles to town along side his boss and Cara, who admitted sneaking into town, in their buggy. They halted in front of the building that doubled as a jail and a home for the sheriff, his wife Cora and deputy. The deputy, Mickey Riley came forward to greet them, ushering them inside.

"Pa's dead," Mickey stated. "The mob killed him when you and Toque got away," he added glaring at Matt. "Me, your boss and Mr. Wentworth and his sons tried to stop them. Even Cara there yelled at them, but the mob wouldn't stop until they'd spent their fury."

"I'm sorry Sheriff Riley died but I'm grateful he tried to stop them. Reckon you're sheriff now. Arrest me so I can clear my name."

"I appreciate what you're sayin', but I'd feel some better if Pa did the arrestin' last night. Still, since you come in willingly, I'll hear you out before lockin' you up."

"Toque and I never stole any horses. I can't explain why ours were at the stable corral instead of in front of the saloon where we left them."

"That was my doing," Cara provided. "I thought it would be funny if you couldn't find them when you reckoned it was time to stagger home too drunk to think straight. I moved them to where you'd easily spot them when the mob started in on you in case you managed to squirm away."

"That's a good story girl, but I wouldn't trust anything you Gallaghers or your hired hands say especially a Gallagher who's sweet on the thief standing here," Kip Wentworth declared as he entered the jail's office. "Still, I got my two horses back – this time. Under the circumstances I can't see pressin' charges, but I'm warnin' you, I'll see you in prison or dead if more of my stock disappears. As for you Rory, I'll ruin you."

Although no more stock disappeared from the Wentworth spread, two months later Rory found his debts mounting thanks to Kip's schemes. He could no longer afford more than one ranch hand. Besides, without my boy around spending all his free time with Gallagher's Cara he probably figured she might be a bit less wild.

"Matt, I have to ask you to pack up your things and clear out. It's nothin' to do with your work. I just can't afford to keep you on. Stop by the house before you go to collect your last month's wages."

I couldn't be certain yet I was pretty sure my Matt knew there'd be no work for him in the area thanks to Kip Wentworth so he said goodbye to Cara, collected his pay and drifted back into Texas to find short-term work on a small ranch where he crossed paths with Dan York. After a time we both learned Cara took up with Jack Tolliver. Together they found ways to harass Kip Wentworth and his sons to make them as miserable as she and her pa. Cara married Jack a scant three months after her 17th birthday, two years later. Rory gave his blessing but he'd grown old before his time and died a broken man within a month of their wedding. By then my Matt almost lost his life as a hostage in a Redwater bank holdup but was spared by York and found his life's calling.


	4. Chapter 4 Visitors from Silver City

Chapter 4 – Visitors from Silver City

Alice and I looked in on Matt frequently before and during the War to End Slavery, but tapered off once he was discharged from the Union Army. We've seen the girls he's shown an interest in, some serious, some not so. We watched him deal with temptations to stray from a moral path and his impulse to serve the public as a lawman. As parents we couldn't help it even if we couldn't influence the outcome. All in all, nobody can say Tom and Alice Dillon's son didn't turn out to be a man to be reckoned with – a man to make his folks proud.

Neither of us looks in on every minor crisis in our boy's life now that he's a grown man. However, we do notice major events. I'm pleased to say Matt finally settled down as the youngest ever to be appointed United States Marshal in the town he first stopped in after the fire that destroyed our home set him to drifting. That was in late '65, a mere six months after General Lee surrendered. Over the years he's remained stubbornly headstrong, choosing his own path and way of doing things. Most men appointed to a prominent position would choose to make their headquarters in a large city or the state capital and delegate to others the day to day tasks in the outlying areas he couldn't patrol himself. Not so our Matt. He chose to remain in Dodge City the town he was expected to try to tame while pretending to be the City Marshal Josh Stryker's deputy. It was one of many tasks assigned so he could prove worthy of the trust put in him. Surviving longer than previous marshals while making progress toward taming the notorious town was his final probationary task. The appointment became official in March of '66.

Matt accepted the chancy nature of his job, one that provided him with a necessary moral calling. Like the predominance of the calling Alice and I had as abolitionists it alas often supersedes other obligations such as to courting and family. Despite a tendency to be a loner he's surrounded himself with some good friends, a kind of extended family like we had with the Thorntons. There's Doc Adams, who's doing a remarkable job providing guidance in my stead, his overly country, emotionally excitable assistant Chester Goode and a red-haired, like his ma, young woman. He should marry and raise a family with her despite fearing he'd leave her a widow tasked with raising their fatherless children if she and their offspring manage to avoid endangerment from those trying to get to him. I can see she already accepts that as a strong possibility even if she doesn't like it.

You'd think God-fearing folk like us would object to him marrying up with a girl who kept herself alive since the age of 13, when her mother died, by whoring and gambling, but we can't in good conscience hold it against her. Fact is, I think she's by far the best of the girls Matt's taken to over the years. Despite the circumstances of her youth she's made the best of it by becoming a partner in the establishment where she works who sees to it the other girls aren't forced into doing more than they're comfortable with. When you add her generous spirit she reminds me of Alice, the redhead I've shared my life and death with since I was 25 and she 20.

Kathleen Russell, better known as Kitty, has been half owner of the Long Branch Saloon for more than a year now. She's not merely beautiful and kind with a good head for business. She's tough, smart and conniving in just the right sort of feminine way. A good judge of character, she's capable of charming most people, especially men, into at least attempting to do right. Her only real faults are that fierce temper and a tendency to spout off at the mouth. Kitty does what she can to help our Matt be his best both as a man and a lawman. That's what she did a few days ago when she spoke with Toque Morlan, Matt's friend from Silver City turned hired gun. She convinced him, where Matt couldn't, that Jack Riley died trying to stop that Silver City mob. Alas, Matt wound up killing him in a gunfight anyway.

Although there was nothing I could do to help Matt get past the emotional turmoil brought on by killing his once close friend to save his own life, I decided to watch for a few more days. I'd spotted that disgusting varmint, the drifting excuse for a preacher, gleefully watching the confrontation on Front Street unfold from his Dodge House hotel room window. I sensed Dilborne set the whole thing up to further punish the boy now grown to manhood he thought of as an unrepentant thief and just as much a killer as his now deceased friend.

Matt was unaware of Elias Dilborne's presence when he sat nursing a beer at a table with Kitty after his early rounds that evening following the gunfight. The saloon was noisy from all the cowboys letting off steam after three months on the trail, but there were no signs of trouble. Chester, sitting at a nearby table, had yet to lose enough at poker to loudly protest the outcome or join Matt and Kitty at their table in hopes of a free beer and a loan.

"Matt, there was nothing else you could do. Toque believed enough in what we told him about that Silver City sheriff to change his mind about killing you. It's just his distrust of the law was too ingrained for him to believe that even with your help he wouldn't hang."

"I know, Kitty. That doesn't change the fact I killed him. Excuse me a second," he added rising and heading toward a table by the window where he'd spotted some folks he needed to check out.

Matt's long strides took him to the table where Kip, Clive and Cord Wentworth sat, a half-empty bottle of whiskey gracing the middle of their table. Like so many of the other Texans in the saloon, they'd brought a herd up to be sold and shipped east from the Dodge City railhead.

"What can we do for you Marshal?" Kip, the father of the other two asked before all three did a double take that Matt's keen eyes didn't miss.

"Just making sure the past is left in the past," Matt replied.

"It may be for my pa, but it ain't for Clive and me. We know you had a hand in stealin' them horses. Pa took care of your old boss, his daughter run off with an even bigger thief before she was caught and your partner's dead at your hand. That leaves only you to deal with."

"Neat bit of work wasn't it to convince two hands of ours to bump into Toque Morlan just as he told those gamblers he wouldn't do their job," Clive added, not bothering to mention the preacher had been the one to point out the lay of things. "The one your partner killed wasn't worth much, but he was glad of the extra pay I give him for acting the drunken fool. Too bad you didn't kill each other. Then our little trick would have been perfect."

"Finish your business, then get out of Dodge," Matt ordered, not bothering to mention he was the one who forestalled the Tolliver gang's final robbery attempt.

"My boys were wrong to set things up like they did. Deek may have been a lazy drunk but he didn't deserve to die, merely fired like his friend Jakes. Still, his death's on your head, Dillon. Hey, Red let's have another bottle here!" he added noticing it was almost empty.

Kitty had been working the room again, trying to keep her customers satisfied and spending money. There was no profit in wasting time waiting for Matt to finish his business. The badge always came first. She brought over another bottle of rye to replace the one the three Texans had emptied as soon as she could get back to their table from the bar. As she set the bottle down, Cord grabbed her arm.

"C'mon, join us," he cooed, pulling her toward his lap. "Later, we can get better acquainted upstairs."

"Let go of me! I'd sooner spend my time with one of your steers. I've work to do."

"Oh, I can believe that!" he snarled pulling her face toward his and turning his back on Matt. "Part of that work is pleasin' payin' customers."

Matt said nothing. He grabbed Cord by his collar, pulled him free of Kitty and out of his chair before a strong backhand sent the youngest Wentworth sprawling on the sawdust covered Long Branch floor. Kip and Clive stood as Cord's head hit that very floor, glaring at Matt.

"Dillon, I don't know how a thief and killer like you became a marshal but I've got another score to settle with you. Clive, pick up your brother. We'll finish our business in your flea-bit town on the street where decent men won't get caught in the crossfire," Kip said as he stood and moved toward the door, never taking his eyes off his sons or Matt.

"I told you back in Silver City I'm no thief. I hate killing, but it's sometimes necessary to keep the peace. Unless you give me reason, I won't draw against any of you," Matt said following the three out onto Front Street.

Kip stood in the street, his feet apart, glaring directly into Matt's face while Clive leaned his slowly coming around brother against one of the posts holding up the Long Branch balcony. I wanted so much to be able to warn my son, but alas I couldn't. To my relief he spotted Clive going for his gun as he straightened up from his completed task. Matt fired, wounding Clive in the shoulder. Then fired again as a now fully alert Cord went for his gun. This time my boy's shot got the other Wentworth son in the gun arm before he got his pistol out of the holster. Kip went to his boys, all fight gone out of him.


	5. Chapter 5 A New Perspective

Chapter 5 – A New Perspective

Kip Wentworth expected Matt Dillon to shoot him while he was preoccupied with his sons. Instead my son, mindful of his oath, directed the nearest bystanders, whose curiosity and a chance for violent entertainment drove them onto the street at the sound of gunfire, to help Clive and Cord up to Doc Adams' office. Chester, knowing his own duty, came through the batwing doors of the Long Branch to clear the way for the two men assisting the Wentworth boys. Kitty, I noticed, now stood at Matt's side. A shocked Kip Wentworth simply remained where he was. My Matt eyed him and the rapidly dispersing crowd closely.

"I know one thing," Kip uttered once he and Matt were the only ones remaining in front of the saloon except Kitty. "You're no killer. As handy as you are with a gun you could have killed my boys and me like you did Toque. Tell me, if you're willing, why did you feel you had to kill your friend and not us?"

"Toque gave me no choice," Matt, waiting until Kitty, at his nod, headed back inside her saloon, replied. "He refused to leave it up to the law despite knowing my testimony in his favor would carry a lot of weight. I couldn't take the chance of merely wounding him. He'd have kept trying to kill me so I couldn't bring him to trial as long as he'd the strength to pull the trigger. However you feel about me, you and your boys ain't gunmen."

"You're right about that. Here, take my gun," Kip replied handing the pistol over butt first. "Just do me one favor, let me see my sons up at the doc's before you lock me up."

"You're not under arrest. But I will walk with you to Doc's office so we can all have a talk."

The two men ambled over to the physician's office. They were climbing the stairs before Kip spoke again.

"You might have caught a glimpse of Elias Dilborne scurrying away. He'd worn out his welcome down our way so he headed east to Texas as the war drew closer. I reckon him bein' all fired up about slavery he chose his direction so it'd be easier for him to sign on to fight for the South. We lost track of you and him until he heard your name mentioned as bein' in Texas too and, knowing how I felt, sent along what information he had. Later Dodge becoming so well known made it a natural destination for him and us."

I continued to watch as my boy opened the door to the good doctor's office. Doc was just finishing bandaging Cord's arm while an awake but weakened Clive lay on the examining table, his damaged shoulder, the bullet already easily removed, swathed in bandages.

"Pa, how come you still got yer gun?" Cord asked from the chair by Doc's desk. "Ain't we all under arrest?"

"We're free to come and go as we please once the doc gives his okay for you boys to move about. Dillon here just wants to jaw with us."

Clive and Cord accepted Kip's explanation of why he now believed Matt, but they took a bit more convincing. Maybe it was because they knew they were responsible for stealing most of the missing stock. To them my son was a convenient scapegoat the strange preacher and orphanage manager Dilborne had accused of theft. After all, Matt was an orphaned drifter, younger than them who worked for their father's rival until he was fired. In their minds it was no stretch he'd become a fast talking gunman somehow appointed by the government who now had power over them in his town.

The younger Wentworths paid scarce attention to their father's recital of how the preacher contacted him after the war or the partial truth he'd already told Matt and now corrected. The reality was Kip didn't reach his decision to switch from driving his cattle from his New Mexico ranch to market in California to driving them along the Santa Fe Trail to this booming cow town until the preacher sent word Matt Dillon made his home here.

"Dillon, you and Morlan were the only loose ends remaining from back in '56 when my horses started disappearing," Kip told everyone in the room. "Based on Dilborne's information we planned to deal with you by making the local law aware a horse thief lived in town. When we started out, I'd no idea Morlan would be here too."

"We spotted the preacher Pa's been talkin' about leavin' the station when we finished loadin' our beeves into the holding pens. He gave us a hint as to how we might arrange at least one of you being caught. If luck was with us, you and your friend Morlan would be at a minimum wounded," Clive added.

"Dillon, how long you been the law hereabouts? Were you the one what dealt with them openly thievin' Tollivers?" Cord asked.

Four years. Yeah, I put a stop to Cara's plans to rob the bank by getting me out of town. Now answer a question of mine. Was Cara stealing stock at 14?"

"I reckon she was," Clive stated. "I'm not sure her pa knew about it though. Lookin' back he tried to keep her in line. Besides, he wouldn't have been so easy to put out of business if he'd put her up to it."

"Clive, Cara Gallagher may have been wild and stole some, but we ought to come clean for Pa's sake," Cord added, acting more like the older than younger brother. "Pa, me and Clive took most of them horses and even some steers to pay off our gambling debts. We stopped after Gallagher was ruined, at about the time we learned to play better poker and if losin' to quit before we ran out of cash."

"Wentworth, that all happened 14 years ago in New Mexico. This is Kansas. Far as I'm concerned those thefts are a family matter."

"I take it we're square then. Doc, would it hurt Clive to move him to our hotel room if Cord and I helped?" Kip added when Matt nodded in agreement.

"I don't see a problem as long as he stays in bed for a couple, three days. I'll still want to check on him before you leave town to be sure he's fit to travel."


	6. Chapter 6 A Fateful Encounter

Chapter 6 – A Fateful Encounter

My Matt remained in Doc's office while Kip Wentworth and his sons made their way across the street to the Dodge House. He'd leave them their privacy. Besides, he felt he owed Doc an explanation.

"You reconciled with the Wentworths, but I've a feeling there's more. What's eating at you Matt?"

"It's that preacher, Doc. I thought I was through with him in Seneca except for the hate. Now I find he rallied the mob in Silver City that nearly killed me and Toque on my 16th birthday. Had he given me the chance I'd of killed him there, but he kept out of my sight. If he hadn't the whole thing would've been finished years ago. Now I'm certain I spotted him right after Kitty spoke to Toque. His scheme partially worked, but he won't leave Dodge under his own power."

"Whoa! How long has a preacher wanted to kill you and you him?"

"Not necessarily kill me. Provide further just punishment for what he thinks I did in '50."

"Matt, you were ten. What could you have possibly done at that age?"

"Return a package to him a friend gave me. It disappointed him he couldn't watch my pa give me a whuppin' for havin' it."

"This is one of those times I don't understand you. What you've told me so far doesn't explain why this preacher's still after you or why you continue to hate him 20 years later."

"Doc, you hated Clem Maddow when he showed up two years ago. I'm guessin' you carried it around inside for at least 20 years. The difference is your hate ended when you saved his life by removing his brother's bullet. Your training as a doctor took over and he had an explanation you could accept. My hate will remain with me until Elias Dilborne's dead."

"What did he do? Preach against you in church?" Doc teased trying to lighten Matt's mood with an absurd bit of speculation.

"Yep. He also beat me a few days before and on that Sunday after his sermon. My pa stopped the first tanning of my bared backside with a belt on our main street. The second time was at my home after the service in church. He grabbed me, stripped me naked and beat me even harder with his belt, a switch, his fists and boots than he did in town. Then he left me tied by my shirt and pants to our porch rail barely hanging on to life for my folks to find when they got home."

"He's still after you? Why? Is it revenge for being sent to prison on your and your parents testimony?"

"Nope. He was long gone from our neighbor's home before my pa, the part-time sheriff, could nab him. Our neighbor's foster son may have confessed to taking that small packet and giving it to me when his pa gave him a whuppin' in front of that devil preacher before he left. What galls Dilborne is I refused to admit to what I didn't do. I merely apologized for whatever inconvenience he suffered from his temporary loss. That rat won't be satisfied until I admit I'm a thief, even if it's with my dyin' breath."

"Matt, try to remember who you are when you confront him," Doc warned. "Like me, you've a responsibility to the people of this town and county. Don't forget the oath you swore when you pinned on the badge."

At this point a disturbance outside drew Doc and Matt's attention and mine as well. It sent my boy racing down the doctor's stairs, the older man shuffling after him to witness a scene playing out in front of the Long Branch that duplicated the scene I'd interrupted in '50. There was the 10-year-old boy, his shirt pulled up and pants pulled down with the same man striking the boy's back and buttocks repeatedly with a wide leather belt while holding him in place by his shirt collar. However, this time I wasn't the one putting a stop to it. Matt's feisty redhead Kitty was doing her best to tear the preacher away while he alternated between swatting the woman and boy.

My greater perspective allowed me to note what happened before Matt and Doc came on the scene. Jerry Couch came out of the Long Branch carrying a basket of dirty laundry for his ma, a widow who earned a pittance competing with the far more prosperous Chinese laundry, to wash when Preacher Dilborne spotted him. The fact the boy wasn't inside to procure drinks or arrange an assignation for Hilda Couch made no never mind. The child had set foot in a place where the devil's brew and fallen women were sold. In Elias Dilborne's eyes the boy and the interfering whore consorting with Matt Dillon had sinned and needed to be publically punished with a severe and shaming public beating that would stop when both repented and begged forgiveness for their sins.

If I could, I'd have let Matt know I was cheering him on as he grabbed that smug polecat's right arm to force him to drop the belt. Tsking hold of Dilborne's shirt with his left hand, my boy kicked the offensive object he'd forced the skunk to drop away before spinning the miscreant around. Matt glared into the face of the self-righteous hypocrite as his right fist to the jaw sent the still powerfully built 50-year-old sprawling in the Front Street dirt.

By now the initially small crowd had grown. Those there from the beginning did nothing to help Kitty stop the burly man with graying hair from beating Jerry. If the strangers among them gave their lack of action any thought it was to assume the man was a father or grandfather entitled to discipline the lad and presumably his mother anyway he saw fit. Fear reinforced by the degradation of poverty and shock kept Jerry's mother Hilda from aiding her son until Matt's attack on Dilborne cleared her head. She rushed forward to pull her boy into the shadows where he could straighten his clothes. Once Jerry was decent mother and son watched Matt repeatedly knock the villain down. Neither was appalled, but Kitty, standing on the boardwalk in front of her establishment, was. Her attitude didn't change when my son began kicking Dilborne and swatting him with his own belt while the scumbag was down.

"Matt! Stop before you kill him!" she yelled.

As nobody else's could, Kitty's voice penetrated the rage that fogged his brain. Matt hesitated before landing another blow. It was long enough for the essence of Doc's words of warning and responsibility to also register. His hate didn't abate but the lawman was able to suppress the man who wore the badge's darker impulses.

"Chester," he growled, handing his assistant his gun, "lock him up when he comes to enough to stagger under his own power while I talk to Jerry and Mrs. Couch. Kitty are you alright?" he added striding over to her side and eyeing her closely.


	7. Chapter 7 Delayed Punishment

Chapter 7 – Delayed Punishment

The scene before me changed as I watched. Without any violence to hold their interest the crowd dispersed, leaving only my son Matt, Chester and the suddenly hapless preacher. After a final look at Elias Dilborne lying on the ground with Chester, gun in hand, waiting to escort him to jail, the again in control Matt strode in the wake of the others towards Doc's stairs. Kitty had picked up the forgotten laundry basket and followed Doc who, along with Hilda Couch, supported the semi-conscious Jerry. Once all five were inside and the office door closed, Mrs. Couch focused on Doc tending to her son while Matt led Kitty into Doc's spare room.

I can look and listen in on anyone connected in any way to Matt as long as the person's within a mile of my son. Once his and Kitty's embrace became intimate I turned my attention elsewhere. By this time Chester had locked a somewhat recovered, loudly complaining Preacher Dilborne into one of the cells and shut the heavy door between those cells and the office. He wanted to muffle the prisoner's shouts as much as possible without gagging him while he practiced a rope trick and sang a tune about a rabbit to unwind from recent events. I loathed listening to Dilborne's rants as much as Chester, so I turned my attention to general observations of my son's town and what the citizens thought of him and his approach to law enforcement. When I reckoned I'd learned all I could, I returned my attention to Doctor Adams' office.

"Mrs. Couch, Kitty will testify against Dilborne but it won't carry much weight unless you file assault charges," Matt stated, looking from the mother to her injured, sleeping son and back. "It's the only way to put him away for a long time."

"I'll sign whatever papers you want if you can promise me it won't hurt Jerry even more. He's already been through so much in his young life."

"Dilborne's done this before, but wasn't caught," ignoring what he knew he couldn't promise the distraught mother. "He'll do it again unless you and Jerry make the hard choice to stop him."

"Matt's right. Men like him will keep beating women and children unless those who suffer at their hands do their part," Kitty added.

I wasn't sure if Kitty was speaking from her own experience or simply backing her man. Nevertheless, her statement convinced Mrs. Couch to file charges. Matt sent for Judge Bendt, who two days later set the trial for the following morning. Dilborne chose to represent himself but without the necessity to convince a jury, with whom he'd be at a disadvantage, in a town where he was a stranger and his adversary was, for the most part, well respected. The judge accepted the defendant's request and decided my son, the arresting officer, would prosecute.

Hilda Couch spoke of what she saw as she came out onto Front Street from the Lady Gay where she'd secured a new business arrangement. Doctor Adams told how the beating had not simply raised welts but drawn blood, throwing the boy against the horse trough had raised deep bruises on his chest and the hold on the lad's bunched up at the neck shirt, helped along by the hitching post rail, had choked the breath out of him. Finally, Kitty Russell recalled seeing the altercation from one of the Long Branch windows as she served her early customers. Elias Dilborne tried to undermine Mrs. Couch and Kitty's testimony by maligning their standing within the community but his attempt failed. It was Jerry Couch's turn.

"Jerry, how old are you?" Matt began as a way to ease the boy into the unfamiliar process of a trial. As soon as the youngster replied he continued, "Despite being only ten, you've become the man of the house. I'm asking you to take on the responsibility of a man in this courtroom. In your own words, tell us why you were in the Long Branch and what happened when you left it."

"When there's no school I help out Ma by gatherin' the dirty clothes and such for her from the places around town that give her regular business and haul the heavy baskets in a large cart over to our place at the river's edge near the end of Bridge Street. It's so she can wash 'em and then get paid when I help her haul it back all clean and ironed like. That's what I was doin' Monday mornin' at the Long Branch. That man over there," he indicated by pointing at Parson Dilborne, "tossed the basket of dirty things Miss Kitty told me to take aside and grabbed me before I could get it back and be on my way. Then he threw me for the first of many times against the horse trough, pulled down my pants, pulled up my shirt and, keepin' a choke hold, whupped my naked back and bottom with his belt while bending me over the hitching post. I don't know if he kept at it after Miss Kitty tried to stop him 'cause I passed out."

"Now I know a boy is taught in the Bible to obey his parents but it still behooves him to seek righteous interference to keep his mama from drawing him into sin like she and the woman who gave you the basket of laundry from that place of vile inequity did," Dilborne began. "What I'm saying is you endangered your mortal soul by visiting an evil place where the devil's brew is sold and women fornicate with men, most often for money. For that you deserve punishment."

"Reverend Dilborne," Judge Bendt interposed. "We're here to establish the events of Monday morning last not for you to give a sermon. Unless you have a question for this prosecution witness, I'll excuse him."

"Sorry, Your Honor. I do have a question. Boy," he said, turning toward Jerry. "Why did you not seek out assistance from a local parson or other morally upright individual to dissuade your mother from leading you into a life of sin? I'm sure there is at least one available in this Sodom, this Gomorrah of the Plains, even if the law's representative is unrepentant and hence in need of further punishment."

"That will be enough," Judge Bendt said in response to Matt's angry objection and his own sense of legal propriety. "This is a court of man's law, not God's law. I'll not abide any more impugning of the integrity of law-abiding citizens, especially of the law's representative in my court on the prosecution side. Personal vendettas have no place here. Mr. Couch, you may leave the witness chair. After a 15-minute recess I trust Reverend you'll be ready to call your first witness," the judge added as Jerry made his way back to where his mother was seated.

Dilborne tried to dredge up the past with his first witness to further impugn my son. Kip Wentworth informed all in attendance, before Judge Bendt halted his testimony and sent him to his seat between his two sons, that Matt Dillon didn't steal his horses 14 years ago. Nor did he deserve a beating at the hands of a mob inflamed by the man now on trial for assault. The accused man ran into the same judicial roadblock when he called my Matt to the stand. This time Judge Bendt issued a stern lecture explaining to Dilborne the mere act of calling the man prosecuting this case to the stand, let alone dredging up his alleged past indiscretions, was inadmissible. Thus, Elias Dilborne himself was his only remaining witness. After we all listened to a statement of his obligation under God's law to act as he'd done, Matt began his cross-examination.

"I take it your defense is your assault on ten-year-old Jerry Couch was justified because you answer to a higher authority than the laws of this community, this state and this country. Then how do you explain the pattern of wanton abuse you've shown over 20 years? Isn't that pattern the reason you've never been able to establish your orphanage anywhere along the frontier? Before you object, you're the one who brought up the past."

"Dillon, I'll deign to answer your questions. Yes, to the first one. It's my responsibility as God's representative here on earth. As to the second, in each place I stopped sinful yet powerful members of the community like you objected to how I disciplined my charges. They removed them from my care and drove me from their towns. However, until now none had the audacity to beat and then arrest me."

Both sides had presented their arguments and evidence, leaving only Judge Bendt's decision as to guilt or innocence before the proceedings drew to a close. He found Elias Dilborne guilty as charged and asked the defendant if he wished to make a final statement before sentence was passed. The disgraced preacher told a story he'd wanted to reveal during the trial.

"My beloved wife died in childbirth 25 years ago. The previous year her father Reverend Chauncey Hoover immediately accepted me as Esther's suitor upon my ordination. He shared my views that women and children would not remain on the righteous path without near constant hard work and frequent application of the rod as instructed in the Holy Book. My father-in-law submitted his wife and surviving children to that regimen throughout his life. Sadly, within a month of our marriage he and his household succumbed to a deadly fever. I inherited Reverend Hoover's church and my Esther a remembrance of her beloved mother – a ring, necklace and broach that she kept in a wrapped, small wooden box.

Following their deaths I applied her father's methods most rigorously. My adherence to this became more pronounced when the small package containing her inheritance, my only remembrance of my wife, was stolen in the tiny town of Seneca, Missouri where I'd come to preach. One culprit was punished by his father in my presence and repented of his sin. The other, despite all my efforts, has followed the devil's path. He has compounded his sin over the years since the moment his father deemed returning my property was sufficient – even consorting with fallen women. Yet he is the one who has conspired to send me to prison, Your Honor."

"Since you show no remorse for your vicious assault on and humiliation of a boy who was acting as a dutiful son to his widowed mother, I've no choice but to sentence you to ten years in the state penitentiary. Marshal Dillon, due to years of mutual personal animosity between you I won't require you to escort the prisoner. That duty will fall to Bill Hickok as soon as he arrives from Abilene."

Epilogue

I checked in on my boy a month later. He had a new prisoner awaiting transfer that he'd personally escort the next morning to the Kansas Penitentiary in Lansing. While momentarily alone with his long legs up on his desk, Matt contemplated a quiet supper with his Kitty while his assistant watched over the jail. I could tell he was daydreaming about a romantic evening before his trip by the smile on his face that disappeared when Chester burst through the door.

"Mr. Dillon!" he warbled excitedly, switching his weight from his good left leg to his stiff right one. "This just come from the prison. What's it say?"

"Didn't you read it?" Matt queried as he scanned the contents of the short wire from the prison warden.

"No sir," was the reply causing him to read it aloud for his assistant's benefit.

"Prisoner Elias Dilborne beaten to death by inmates Rupe Welby and Collie Flint. They informed me you'd understand. Perhaps upon arrival you can explain."

Matt stuffed the message in his pocket. He made sure Chester locked all the doors except the front, including the one between the office and the cells. Once both were outside he locked that last one. Then my son escorted his friend to the Long Branch for a celebratory drink. Four hours later as dusk fell, he and Kitty shared a picnic supper along the bank of the Arkansas River.

"Cowboy, you seem particularly content this evening. While I'm always pleased when you dress up and take me for a romantic supper followed by a moonlit buggy ride over the prairie, it's a bit of a surprise. Is the warden sending someone for your prisoner?"

"Kitty, I'm still leaving at sunup. It's just that Delmonico's isn't the best place to celebrate the warden's news with you."

"All you told me and Doc was a prisoner died. One less man to get out and seek revenge doesn't merit a special romantic evening even if you'll be gone at least a week."

"Elias Dilborne was beaten to death by two inmates. It's what he deserved."

With that said, Matt drew Kitty into an embrace, their supper momentarily forgotten. I took it as my cue to leave my boy alone with his girl. I was nearly as pleased as him as I sought the company of his mother. Our son could finally let go of his hate and enjoy the love Kitty offered as much as he and the badge allowed. At the prison he'd learn Rupe and Collie, Dilborne's first orphans, were eight-year-old witnesses to his beatings in Seneca. They took advantage of the first opportunity to run away from the abuse the preacher heaped upon them and the gift of his deliverance into their hands. Elias Dilborne's punishment was indeed what he deserved.


End file.
